Page 107 of The Secrets We Built Together

Amelia chose that moment to grab at Blake's hair again, eliciting a small yelp of pain that made all three of us laugh. The sun streamed through the studio windows, casting long, golden rectangles across the floor. Outside, spring was in full bloom,with the oak tree visible in the distance, its leaves creating a canopy of green against the blue sky.

As I watched Blake talking animatedly about her plans for the upcoming show, I thought about how far we'd both come from that first night with Amelia. The woman who'd been afraid to pick up a paintbrush was now bursting with creativity. And me—the man who'd sworn off connections, who'd been determined to stay detached and independent—found myself completely, hopelessly entangled with these two incredible human beings.

In her painting, Blake had captured something I hadn't fully realized until this moment: we weren't just playing at being a family anymore. We weren't pretending. Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred, and what had started as an arrangement had become as real as anything I'd ever known.

Like we'd finally found our way home.

Chapter 38

Blake

The morning sun cast everything in golden light as we walked through downtown Willowbrook, and I couldn't stop smiling. The Renewal Festival had transformed our quiet little town into something magical—colorful banners fluttered from every storefront, the scent of kettle corn and funnel cake drifted through the air, and music spilled out from the main stage set up in the town square.

Xander pushed Amelia's stroller with one hand, his other arm wrapped around my waist as we navigated through the growing crowd. She was wide-eyed and babbling excitedly, pointing at everything with chubby fingers—the face painter's booth, the balloon artist, the carousel that had been trucked in for the weekend.

"Look at all this," I said, gesturing at the festival spread out before us. "I can't believe our little town put together something this incredible."

"Delaney mentioned they've been planning it for months," Xander said, steering us around a group of children chasing bubbles. "Apparently the tourism board is hoping to make it an annual thing."

I nodded, but I was only half listening. My mind was spinning with creative possibilities as I took in the riot of colors around us. The vivid reds and yellows of the carnival games, the soft pastels of cotton candy, the rich jewel tones of the handmade quilts hanging in the craft section. Everything felt more saturated, more alive than usual, like someone had turned up the contrast on the world.

"I need to get supplies," I said suddenly, stopping in front of a booth selling handmade soaps and candles. The vendor had arranged her wares in a rainbow display that made my fingers itch for a paintbrush.

Xander raised an eyebrow. "Art supplies? At a craft fair?"

"No, I mean from the art store in Blue Point Bay," I clarified, pulling out my phone to make a note. "I've been thinking about changing up my technique. Maybe starting with acrylics for the base layers—they dry faster, and I can get those bright, bold colors I want. Then I could work over them with oils for depth and realism."

"That sounds complicated," he said, but his eyes were warm with interest. "And exciting."

I grinned, bumping his shoulder with mine. "The best techniques usually are. But I think it could give me exactly the effect I'm looking for. Imagine being able to capture this"—I gestured at the festival around us—"all that vibrant energy, but with the subtle details that make it feel real."

Amelia chose that moment to reach for the soap display, nearly launching herself out of her stroller. Xander caught her with practiced ease, lifting her up to sit on his hip instead.

"Better view up here, little bug?" he asked, holding her steady as she squealed with delight.

I watched them together, my heart doing that familiar flip it always did when I saw how naturally fatherhood had come to Xander. Amelia hands bracketed his cheeks as she chatted away in her baby language while he nodded seriously, as if he understood every word.

"We should get her face painted," I suggested, pulling out my phone to snap a photo of them. "Something tells me she'd love to be a butterfly."

"Only if you get one too," Xander said, grinning down at me. "I want to see what you'd choose."

Before I could answer, a familiar voice called out behind us. "Well, look at this happy family."

I turned to see Ethan approaching, but instead of the awkward tension I might have expected, his smile was genuine and warm. He looked different somehow—more relaxed, like he'd found his own version of contentment.

"Ethan," I said, genuinely pleased to see him. "How are you?"

"Good. Really good, actually." He glanced between Xander and me, taking in the obvious changes in our dynamic—the way Xander's arm tightened protectively around my waist, the way I leaned into him without thinking. "I heard congratulations are in order. The adoption went through?"

"Last week," I confirmed, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "She's officially ours now."

"That's wonderful news, Blake. Really." Ethan's smile reached his eyes. "I always knew you'd be an incredible mother. Even if I didn’t show it very well."

Heat crept up my neck at the memory of those early, terrifying days.

"I had a lot of help," I said, glancing up at Xander.

"We all did," Xander added quietly, and I knew he was thinking about his own journey, his own fears about being worthy of this family we'd built.

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